The Rabbit King
by Nostalgian
Summary: "Shoshoy Kralis/Rabbit King" - Alfred will gradually forget everything: his revolution, his declaration, his borders, his interests and his name – Aleandro will recall every single detail in sharp  painful sharp  detail. :: oc!Romani & pieces of his life.


All works belong to their respective owners.

**Author's Note:** Well, this fiction needed writing. It's been a nasty little beastie that grabbed my attention, so, I hope to heavens my research has paid off, and this is a reasonable enough depiction of the Romani people. It was pretty difficult in the first place considering the sheer variety in a nomadic people, as well as sparse records of the culture in question. I guess my main point was to try and make a fair depiction of the Romani people, and rely on historical and cultural facts, which were not easy to find. At first this was just going to be a short one-shot about Aleandro here being cynical about the reaction made by the UN towards France's recent expulsions of Roma populations, but I got caught up in the idea of Aleandro's memories.

I decided that Aleandro's memory works differently to the other folks because he is not bound to a geographical location, and therefore cannot be invaded/altered as easily: his traditions and notions of himself are more founded in his people. However, being repeatedly forgotten cannot be a pleasant experience. As well as the habit other people have of kicking him out.

Now for a quick History 101: The Romani people are believed to been an off-shoot of Hebrew Nomads, who settled in Indus Valley, but were eventually driven out (and sort of left by their own choice) by opposition from the Indic people living in the area. Some of this fiction doesn't pertain to history directly, but the holocaust certainly did affect the Romani people. Also of note the first Romani political party (The MCF Roma összefogás) was established in Hungary in the year 2006.

The snippets of language used by Aleandro are largely Italian, and Yugoslavian Roma (apparently) but I don't pretend to know any of the language, and any/all mistakes are to be expected. Additionally, choice of dialect was based on the resources I could find and not on any other factor.

I've included further notes at the bottom of the page, including various translations, but I do have one other important note for this section. In fiction, the Romani people and their lifestyle is often romanticized, and I feel it's important to note, whilst the Romani people have a very beautiful culture, and I do not want to detract from that (and sincerely hope I didn't in this fiction) I also did not want to fall into some form of patronizing "noble savage" vein, and wax lyrical about the way of life. Yes, the culture and people are beautiful, but the racism both from and towards the Romani people, the difficulty of the life style, malnutrition that can occur in times of hardship, and lack of political recognition, and so many other things is not something to wax poetic about. Not in the slightest.

Finally: I have tried to make this a respectful, and reasonably fair depiction of the Romani culture, and I have researched considerably, but you must accept I will make mistakes. I would like to be well informed of said mistakes, so that I can learn, but please, I beg of you, don't jump down my throat.

And yes, please enjoy this work. I've really become attached to Aleandro's character, and his life whilst writing this story.

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><p><strong>Warnings: <strong>Depiction of Romani People, Native Americans, scenes relating to the Holocaust, borderline Hungary/Rhom, and oc!Rhom. And gratuitous language obsession.

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><p><em><strong>Shoshoy Kralis.<strong>_

* * *

><p><em>- Aleandro Kralis – Rhom –<em>

_- O shoshoy kaste si feri yek khiv sigo athadjol – The rabbit with only one hole is swiftly caught –_

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><p><strong>2010:<strong>

Aleandro does not expect pity; not from these nations. They look over his face, and he keeps it carved like a rock. France is the first to speak, and Aleandro's long memory serves him well, like a whittled path he has gone down many times before. Aleandro does not even consider paying attention to France, letting the man talk out the way he thinks he should.

France is asking him to leave – asking is a word that covers all manner of crimes, and Aleandro sighs;

"1502."

His memory has not failed him.

England is protesting France's decision, but Aleandro does not think for a moment it is for his own sake. He knows what England thinks of the middle-east. Patiently, Aleandro waits for England to finish, and once again his memory will never fail him.

"1526, 1530." Aleandro eyes England for the longest time, and considers the tin-people who clamber over Ireland, and how they borrow his words and are linked to him permanently in the eyes of the world. Aleandro is talking about the death penalties by Henry VIII's hand, and the Egyptian Act (does Aleandro look Egyptian to England? Li' ha' eer…) but England doesn't even have the courtesy to blush. These sorts of people remember nothing.

America is protesting on his behalf, again. Mostly ideals, though. Aleandro watches him for a bit, more welcoming than Europe, certainly, but what of the natives? Indians? Aleandro remembers the Indians, sometimes, because his memory never fails him (they had terrible claws and terrible teeth, but the arab scum were worse) and they are nothing like America's skeletons.

Aleandro, however, has no specific dates to hand; only an armful of "isolated incidents". The best way to dress down this nation is to look at him and wait for him to remember what he has done to himself. Aleandro will be left waiting for a long time. There's nothing left to listen to these years.

His memory will never fail him, however, unlike these people.

England is telling France not to be so xenophobic, but his immigration policies are still getting very tight. Aleandro supposes this is because England is so small, and it must be just so crowded. Aleandro smirks; England is paranoid of people settling on his soil, but he is formed of nothing but that. He is made of what Aleandro will always be. Aleandro is an example of England's origin. Aleandro Kralis is just a different form of the egg and seed impurity that birthed England.

Aleandro does not desire pity from any of them, and he gazes these gift horses in their wooden teeth: it reminds him of Greece (skinny from hunger, and wide-mouthed unhappy about it. Aleandro's ribs have always stuck out like little markers. He can read the protuberant bones better than anything else. Nobody here can really remember hunger). You cannot remember hunger; you must feel it, poking and prodding under your fingertips like Braille.

You can remember why you are hungry and it is just the case for Aleandro.

Aleandro's memory will never fail him.

* * *

><p>"I do not expect pity from any of you." He says it firmly.<p>

America touches him on his arm. "But you know, if France does kick you out, you can come to me. We are a land of dreams." Aleandro shrugs the arm away, and wanders away, pulling his cloak tightly about him. America is chasing him, eyes bright and hopeful. "Really! Anyone can come to America!" Just like that place to touch him, without any fear. America cannot fear anything, let alone this Rhom.

Aleandro lets the doors hush and husk behind him – automatic – and wanders to a side-alley, and presses his fingers into the gullet of his motorbike. America is still following him, and telling him that the Romani will never be extracted from the United States of America. As soon as America sees the bike, he is captivated.

"What a beautiful machine."

"Mhm." Aleandro agrees. But then he disagrees. "I already live in you, chavi." Aleandro hitches his bike up, and reaches out with cold fingertips that raise goosebumps on America's exposed cheek. "But never for long. Do not offer me the charity of your scraps – your scraps have always belonged to me. Do not tell me it is kindness."

America is careful of Aleandro's hands, but not afraid. This is a lesson he must learn from Aleandro, this lesson that Europe knows well; leave Aleandro well alone, for his hands are like living birds. Europe is scared of Aleandro and his obscurity, shifting-changing shapes, and ability to pass unnoticed into them. Aleandro taps America's chin, with a laugh:

"I paw your garbage and pockets. My ability to exist is no feather for your cap." Aleandro grins, and spins America's glasses on his fingertips, and rests his knee on the bike. "I've no need of this." He hands the glasses back. "But you feel nothing, her'y? Yet you see it happen." America takes them, but his hands shy from Aleandro's freezing, feathery touch. "Respect me, tern'o tale."

Aleandro glances up and down America with his piercing black eyes – he will force fear into this man. This is Aleandro's greatest trick, fooling countries into simply trying to swat him away from them, shying from his touch, and respecting this hungry traveler with his bones all over the place. He is a concept sunk deep in the mystique and occult, and they whisper of his cunning, trickery, delicate hands and the certainty he will tell them things they cannot know.

America does not budge one inch, and Aleandro hates him a little for it. Laughing again, Aleandro slaps America's face kindly. "I like you. You may call me Nicu."

"Thank you Nicu?" America has the most wonderful look of confusion. "I'm Alfred."

"Alfred. Good strong name." Aleandro swings one leg round his motorbike. "You are not afraid of me." Aleandro studies Alfred, arms crossed over his chest, but then shrugs and begins tying his heavy cloak into a knot to keep it out of the machine when he makes it roar with life.

"I'm a hero, I'm scared of nobody."

"So you have never run away in your life?" Aleandro smirks knowingly. His memory does not fail him. "I am not an educated man but I know you ran away from the League of Nations and crazy Europe."

"I've never run away since." Alfred is determined, and despite Aleandro's squeeze on the handles of his bike, he doesn't move out of the way.

"You will not last then, I suppose." Aleandro lets the engine snarl into life beneath him, and the strong metal and humming tendons of this machine-beast growl at Alfred to move aside. Finally, Alfred does move and Aleandro lets his transport bear him away from this building, and the forced responsibility of pity. This will not be the last he will see of Alfred, he supposes, but he does not have any further opinion, because whilst Alfred will gradually forget everything – Aleandro, the motorbike, his revolution, his courage, his declaration of self-sufficiency, his borders, his interests and his name – Aleandro will recall every single detail in sharp (painful sharp) detail. This is because he is the King of self-sufficiency. He is the rabbit king.

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><p>England believes his family's magic is the most potent in the world. Aleandro cannot really protest this; the man could be unraveled and sewn together with the fey. The whole matter makes Aleandro suspicious of him. They have always been very different, but there is an understanding between them sometimes that they are both creatures of magic. Except that Aleandro has no magic in him. So there is no understanding, only a lie of it.<p>

Not that anybody suspects this, least of all England, who has somehow located him. Aleandro is holding a small child of meaningless gender when England steps into the camp-site (another example of the understanding between them. England used to hide in marshes. Aleandro can remember) and Aleandro feels exposed. He passes the child to their sister, who is barely up to Aleandro's elbow herself. Aleandro steps in front of both of them as they clatter back to their family, and crosses his arms, cloak filming out either way.

He does not speak, but instead waits for England to begin whatever he has started.

"Mihai." Arthur begins, and Aleandro spits out in his anger.

"You have no right to call me that!" Aleandro can remember though, that he was the one to give the name to England.

"What do I call you, then, Gypsy?" England knows that calling Aleandro a gypsy will always be a worse insult than git.

"What do you want from me?" Aleandro can feel the camp already dissipating behind him, and his heart unclenches. His citizens – hardly citizens, people, little animals that keep him alive, and keep his heart beating, how he loves them so – are safe.

"America's wallet." England taps his foot.

Aleandro sighs. "Can I be innocent?"

"No." As always so harsh, Aleandro remembers a time when he saw Scotland and England clinging together from the force of the ice-age, and he was still harsh then, screaming like a frightened animal. Aleandro passes the skeletonized wallet to England. "I took all the cash."

"He just wants the wallet itself back anyway." England admits. Aleandro is not afraid of England, however. Even though he is stitched with veins of magic, and could beat Aleandro so very badly. Mostly he is not afraid, because Aleandro knows it could be worse, and England could never kill him (not alone, and when will they ever agree enough to kill him?) and Aleandro is numb to the fear and pain by now. Sensibly, Aleandro backs away.

"Don't you run from me, Mihai." England snaps, and Aleandro freezes carefully. His whole body has been filled with sand and dry ice, so he waits and lets it seep into his pores, calming England's already tight rage. "You took advantage of him."

"I take advantage of everything." Aleandro confesses, and he remembers every minute of it, and smirks. He refuses to be ashamed that he is alive.

"He is special; you know that Aleandro. He has never asked you to leave." England is appealing to the same side of Aleandro that Alfred tried to, but unfortunately, that side does not exist. That is a side of a country who does not have sharp ribs.

"And his mother." Aleandro wonders to himself. "My memory does not fail me, Arthur." No, Aleandro's memory never fails him. The others? They rise and then they crumble to dust, looping as the do into themselves. Albion, Angleland, you truly remember nothing. Aleandro still remembers every step his people have made on England's earth. His memory is, as always, reliable.

"No, I suppose it doesn't." England murmurs. "It never has."

* * *

><p>"Who are you?"<p>

The eyes are bright, and staring up at Aleandro, who is perched in a tree. Aleandro had heard of this child (this new country) but did not expect to be found himself whilst searching for a glimpse of this new world.

"You have good eyes."

The eyes are blue, and staring up at Aleandro. After a moment of thought, Aleandro jumps down in front of the boy, and studies the child. "I can track most anything!" The little one insists with a grin. "But who are you? How did you get here?"

"I am a traveler. So I travelled here, chavi." He smirks, an affable expression this time. "But who are you, ciocoi?"

"I'm me." The child snaps back, with a fitful of a smile. There is no fear in his face, and Aleandro is surprised. This is a person who does not know how to run.

"Arvah." Aleandro agrees peaceably. "Ale, what are you, then?"

"A warrior!" The voice is pleased with itself. Aleandro tips his head to the side. "You know! A brave!"

"Brave? So you are a hero?" Aleandro asks, gently moving the conversation to the serious fault of this youngster. This nation is another one who will chase Aleandro from him one day or another (Aleandro's memory is certain of this) but it is also a child, with keen eyes and a wolf-cub grin. Wolf-cubs always turn into wolves, but, Aleandro is fond of wolf-cubs, and knows how to take them, tame them and have them lick the palms of his hands.

"A hero!" The Me agrees, jumping up and down, clapping his hands in a sharp rhythm of delight. "Oh yes, I am a hero!"

"I've heard heroes are afraid of nothing." Aleandro says, shrugging his shoulders. "But I don't believe it."

"Wokitaík!" The child growls like a wild animal, and this delights Aleandro no-end. "Wokitaík, ąká ną́kewa!" The sudden burst of his own tongue is a startled splash of water on Alenadro's face; he presumes the child is protesting.

"Well, in that case you do not know how to run." Aleandro says with another smirk, half-smiling at the boy. "And you cannot catch me then." Aleandro turns, and with a shake of his cloak, is already running into the grain of the wind. The youth stumbles – legs waving like prairie grass and bamboo shoots – after him, shrieking in anger.

"I can too! I can run fast like the čahų́na, forever like the kyiyu, and after you, I can run too!"

The small country is strong, and once he finds his place, his lope, he keeps up with Aleandro; but Aleandro is the best runner in the entire world, and it is not difficult for Aleandro to turn around, running backwards (fast like Russian frost, fast like English rain, fast like Persian heat, fast like Spanish warmth, fast like a thousand ways to run away) and laughs at the child's expense.

"I thought you could run, tern'o chavi." Aleandro smirks knowingly.

"Not like you!" The Me pants helplessly. "Your legs are too quick for me! I can only run _after_ you!" Aleandro slows down, letting his feet step into the air in slower and slower motions. The child puts in an extra spurt and seizes Aleandro by his cloak, and Aleandro waits for the child to stop him and over-take him. This does not happen.

Instead, the boy (squealing like a wolf-cub) trips over, and sends both of them sprawling. Aleandro rolls, bundling the child in his grip, and suddenly they are both rolling around, squealing and sprawling in the long-grass. They come to rest, Aleandro laid back in the weaving wind and grass, laughing. The child looks at him speculatively, blue eyes fierce and sure of himself.

"What are you, then?" The little one is pouting at him. "You run faster than anything."

"Oh? Me?" Aleandro brushes a grass-seed from the boy's golden hair, and then brushes some from his own straight black hair. "I'm nobody."

"Not if you run like that."

"Oh very well." Aleandro pouts back, before laughing again, the noise tickling up his throat. "I am Aleandro Shoshoy Kralis." He replies, and presses his nose into the gold strands, sniffing curiously. The child squalls, and swats at him with a giggle. "The Rabbit King." Aleandro explains, wrinkling his nose and winking at the boy. "That is how I ran faster than you. I am the rabbit king, and therefore, I can run faster than anyone."

"Rabbits are for eating." The Me says, and Aleandro knows he might have thought of what he said, and perhaps he did not, but he is too young to understand. Besides, he is correct.

"That is why they are so very good at running." Aleandro informs him, smugly, and proud of being alive.

"Running away." The Me says thoughtfully.

"Yes; whoever heard of a rabbit chasing a wolf. Nobody, that's who." Aleandro sits up, the boy still cradled in his lap.

"You said you were nobody." The child is petulant, and pokes his tongue out. "But I'm somebody: I'm Kyiyu." He pauses. "Sometimes. I go lots of places and have lots of names."

"That's okay. Many names can belong to one person. You are a wolf, a vyusher." Aleandro nods at him, plucks him up and sets the Kyiyu down on the ground. "It's good not to stay still for too long, you might need it later. There are bigger wolves who are coming, that and lions. You will need to run from them."

"A hero does not run from anybody. Wolves don't run away." Aleandro gets to his feet, and looks down at the blue-eyed, gold-haired boy. Kyiyu's face is transparent with anger.

"Okay, then." Aleandro sighs, and then perks up. He kneels down, level with Kyiyu, and gives his spookiest, trickster smirk and whispers. "Not even from the dead?"

"The dead?" Kyiyu yelps, jumping back as Aleandro gives a creepy chuckle, and all at once, he turns tail and runs away from Aleandro. It is one of the few times Kyiyu will run away, and this is a sobering thought, and it dries up Aleandro's laughter.

This has happened before; Aleandro can remember it.

* * *

><p>"When did you get here?" The two boys are staring up at Aleandro, from his comfortable perch in the tree. The green-eyed one is yelling up at him, and Aleandro looks down with quiet interest, but shrugs.<p>

"I've always been here, machka." Aleandro's spine feels sore and spindly in his back, so he wriggles slightly at his post, and blinks down as the smaller-child outright kicks at the tree.

"You have not! Caledon has always been here!" The child turns to look at his older brother, who has the same messy hair as this irritable little one, but in red not dirty blond. "So when did you get here, swiver!" The boy grimaces at him. "Who the bleeding wounds are you anyway?"

"I'm nobody." Aleandro tucks one foot up and plants it on the branch, turning to look away from the two siblings. They are young and annoying, and Aleandro has grown very annoy-able during his long desert walk. He had found places of interest across the continent, some with ice, some with rain, and some with humid warmth, but had continued to explore to this small nowhere across the sea. His hopes of peace had been dashed by these two, however.

"I'll get our mother." The red-haired one adds, threatening, and this time Aleandro looks down. Caledon, the blond one called him. Caledon has pretty pale-blue eyes and Aleandro feels self-conscious about his brown eyes, but only for a moment. It is better to have dark straight hair, than those poor red and pale-yellow haystacks these brothers have been cursed with. It is all fair. Besides, both blue and green eyes are too noticeable.

"I'm just a ghost." Aleandro reassures them. "Sometimes I am here, and sometimes I am not."

"So you're dead?" The small rude one queries.

"How rude of you." Aleandro sighs.

"I've met ghosts before. I'm Albion. This is Caledon. Mother calls him Alba." Albion is very forthcoming, despite his rudeness. Perhaps this little one is simply frank. He is, of course, babbling. Only a demon can commune with the dead, and only a demon would want to.

"I'm not dead. But I am a ghost." Aleandro repeats.

"I've never heard of that." Albion shrugs, his green cloak shifting with the movement. "I told you my name. It's polite to tell me yours."

"You've not been very polite with me so far." Aleandro admonishes the child, turning away again. "I said I was nobody."

"Nobodies cannae climb trees." Caledon pipes up. "I am goin' to get our ma, and then she'll make you climb down."

"Nobody can make me come down." Aleandro smirks.

"You're nobody, and I am Albion." Albion cuts in again. "And I will make you climb down if you don't tell me who you are. You said what you are."

"I told you what I was. It's polite for you to tell me yours." Aleandro counters.

"I am this," Albion points down at his feet, then at the tree. "And that. And everything here. This is me. I am this."

"If you are this tree, then make me come d-" Aleandro is suddenly knocked out of the tree by unseen laughter, and a spark of glitter. He hits the ground, and groaning rolls up, quick to his feet again. "Dordie!" He coughs out without meaning to, and rubs his hinder-end. Suspiciously, he gazes at Albion and waits for an explanation.

"I am also that." Albion is smug, green eyes bright with the greatest delight. "And I have made you come down."

"So you are nobody?" Aleandro rubs the back of his head now, and his spine is very brittle in his back, but he disguises the pain from this little one. "Well I can't be nobody then (names only belong to one person, her'y?), if you are; I am Aleandro Kralis." He pauses, and stares down at the quiet, shaking little Albion in front of him, Caledon presses himself against Albion, querying (asking in touching ranges and lakes);

"I am not nobody." The little voice is small, but not swallowed up in the trembling little one.

Aleandro crouches down to Albion's height, and adjusts the little wildcat's cloak. "My mistake…" He murmurs quietly.

Albion shoves him away. "I am going to get mama and she will make you go away!" Albion seizes Caledon's hand and the two of them run away into the curling forest, and Aleandro is impressed by their silent footfalls, even amongst the bracken and pine needles. However, Aleandro needs no help in disappearing.

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><p>Aleandro is stroking the nose of one of his bay mares, when he first sees the other nation. "Shalom." The boy is about his height, and has dark curls that frame his face, and olive-skin. Aleandro watches him from the corner of his eye, but continues stroking the horse's nose gently. The boy is about his height, and Aleandro does not have much height himself.<p>

"Sastipe." Aleandro is not looking for a fight, and so he does not think for a second that the other boy is. He is young and so, when he presses his lips gently to the splotchy white blaze on the horse's muzzle, he shuts his eyes for only a second.

He is still reprimanded. "You should not have closed your eyes." Aleandro opens his eyes and looks round at this country. "You put yourself at risk when you do that." The boy has the most expressive eyes, and Aleandro watches them, confused.

"At risk?" Aleandro bites his lip, nervously.

"How long have you been in the desert?"

"Not very long…" Aleandro admits this, scuffling his feet in the sand, and against his palm the horse whickers. He walks away from it and towards this new friend. "Aren't you going to ask me who, or what I am?" Everybody asks that, after-all. As soon as another nation spots one of his kind, he first wonders who and what the other is, where they belong exactly.

"You're nobody." The other informs him.

"I am not nobody." Aleandro defends himself, and clenches his fists.

"Then where is your home?"

"Indus Valley…" Aleandro mumbles. "But I left there…"

"That makes you nobody."

"Who are you?" Aleandro is angry now. He knows very well that he is not nobody. Just because he does not have a place to put his feet does not mean he is nothing.

"I am also nobody." The boy has such beautiful sad eyes, and Aleandro reaches out to brush his hand against his cheek, but the boy swats his hand away. Yet with such gentleness, that Aleandro stares at him, his mouth dropping into a soft 'o' shape, like a small, ripe fruit.

"Oh." It occurs to Aleandro that being nobody is not an insult. "I'm Aleandro."

"Israel." Israel answers, then pauses. "Your name is Rhom, actually. I can call you Aleandro though." He pauses once more. "You can call me big brother."

"Are we brothers?"

"Yes. You are my brother from Indus Valley. I don't have that many brothers…"

"Oh." Aleandro doesn't know what to say.

"We are a family of nobodies, until we can go home." Israel carries on as if he hasn't heard Aleandro, which might not be such a bad thing, since Aleandro didn't have much to say. "My father and I were in India, and you were born. But now they have made you a nobody as well. I thought you belonged there."

Aleandro suddenly has something to say, face flushed he asks his question. "Where is home, exactly, big brother?"

"My home is Israel." Aleandro laughs as though his brother has said something foolish, and Israel grits his teeth and stabs at the sand with his fingers. "No! Look Aleandro!" Israel draws a map into the ground and then pokes and prods away at the sand-drawing. "There, that is Israel. That's me. That's home."

"That's Palestine." Aleandro corrects him.

"That's me." Israel whispers, voice deadly smooth.

"That's you." Aleandro agrees, his voice also a whisper. "Is that my home?"

"No, it is not your home; your home is the Indus Valley." Israel reaffirms. "You belong there."

"But I can't belong there." Aleandro whimpers, tears springing to his eyes. "Everybody hates me there! I am nobody there!"

Israel looks at him, his eyes are cool and his face is cool, but his voice is hot and melting over Aleandro. It is a soothing noise, but only because it is so full of understanding. Aleandro does not want to be understood, and yet it is good to not be alone. When Israel abruptly presses Aleandro's face into his side, he does not protest, and instead sobs into Israel's robes.

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><p>Aleandro is jealous even though he tries hard to pretend he isn't. Israel is getting given his own home back, just like he said. Aleandro understands that his brother has suffered for it, in numbers that make Aleandro quake. But, na bister five hundred thousand. Don't forget the five hundred thousand. It seems the only number worth remembering from that…that then, is six million. Aleandro can remember every single number, because his memory does not fail him, but it is easy to forget half a million in a confused wash of seventeen million.<p>

Even though Aleandro suspects it to be closer to one and a half million, not five hundred thousand.

It's no good arguing numbers though.

Aleandro wishes he had reasons like his always-dwindling numbers, but Israel had seven million of his citizens – hardly citizens, people, little animals that keep him alive, and keep his heart beating, how he loves them so – in Europe when Germany comes to take them, and six million of them are stamped out. Aleandro remembers Germany coming for him and his people, drumstep footfalls, and Aleandro ran like nothing else. Aleandro wonders if this is why nobody remembers five hundred thousand.

Because Aleandro spat in Germany's white-washed face, his own skin an exotic and familiar mix of olive and pale white, and turned tail to run (Aleandro's memory does not fail him);

* * *

><p>"Hanzi!" Germany is shouting his name out behind him, but Aleandro is not Hanzi, he is the rabbit king, so he keeps running.<p>

Germany wipes the spittle from his face, and throws his hands out in disgust, the saliva splattering on the floor with the violence of the gesture. Germany's voice floats out behind Aleandro, filmy and thin, and incapable of bringing anything to Aleandro. He knows he cannot be destroyed by them, because everything they are is filmy and thin. They will never stop fighting each other, but there is enough cooperation to drag Aleandro to the ground, pulling his straight and ragged hair.

"Bengesko niamso!" Aleandro screams in Germany's grip, as Germany puts his knee sharply into his back. His spine feels paper-thin contained in the shell of his skin. He struggles, and struggles away, but his hungry ribs are poking and nudging Germany – telling this Aryan bastard – that Rhom is too weak to fight him. Harshly, he is pulled to his feet, and Aleandro gulps, his skinny throat bobbing and his pulse flickering in the side of his neck.

Germany spits at him, and it drips down Aleandro's face as he is dragged away.

* * *

><p>"May angle sar te merel kadi yag…" Aleandro swears, his face paling as he stares up at Germany. "Aryan bastard; I can leave. I can just leave."<p>

Aleandro remembers each sharp, pointy, painful memory in sharp, pointy and painful detail. The vividness slaps him in the face – no, that is only Germany.

"You would still exist then." Germany smirks, but Aleandro smirks back.

Germany could let him run. Everybody knows by now that Aleandro is the one who leaves quickly, easily when told to. "1417. You let me stay only ten years. Everybody else… they were so tolerant." Aleandro twists to stare at the wall, but it is only dark and demanding. "I should have known you would be such a-" He coughs painfully. "Te merav. I remember you."

"Hanzi." The word is washed with confused patriotism, self-disgust, pride. A little insanity is there when Aleandro looks at his face. "You will become nobody."

"I am nobody." Aleandro feels he must remind Germany, because Germany cannot remember his name, let alone this important fact.

Germany back-hands him across the face, and the taste of blood is in the corner of Aleandro's mouth, he smirks, and the blood trickles across his cheek, as Aleandro flops his head back up, laughing.

"Li' sa' eer." Aleandro chokes out a chuckle, and the German waves him away in disgust.

* * *

><p>Aleandro did not expect to find Israel here, and it makes his blood cold, and jumpy, coughing he reflects on how his own blood is trying to run from him now. All hail the Rabbit King, because this is no time for pity. He crawls to Israel, and gazes at him frankly:<p>

"Miro prala…" Aleandro combs his fingers through Israel's hair, and Israel moans against the cold touch. "Speak." Aleandro begs, his voice cracking.

It has been many years since Israel held Aleandro against him in the desert. It has been many years since Aleandro was heart-broken over having to leave his valley. In those years, Aleandro has grown lanky and tall; thin as well, because there is too much Aleandro to feed now. His ribs stick out in funny places and Germany's ferocity is not helping him. Aleandro is suspicious, and reviles foreigners – if they give him one finger, he will bite their hand clean off. Israel is not a foreigner though, he is a jew, not a gadge (not like Germany, Germany is gadge gage gago). Without a thought for anything else, Aleandro helps Israel up and wipes his face, thumbing under Israel's beautiful eyes.

"Please, have you found your home, yet, miro prala?" Aleandro asks, trying to rouse Israel.

But when Israel's eyes snap open, and fix on Aleandro, there is no cloudy condensation of recognition. This is because there is no recognition. This is because Israel does not recognize him.

It takes everything that is left in Aleandro not to drop Israel against the floor, instead he curls Israel close and murmurs, tears falling silently onto Israel's face. He whispers, "Shalom." Aleandro's stomach clutches, and he swallows helplessly. "My name is Mircea."

"Shalom." Israel croaks. "I am nobody…"

You are not nobody, you have never been nobody! You are my brother! You are my elder brother! You never were and never will be nobody!

Aleandro's head is burning, or perhaps that is the gentle indent of pain from his jutting bones. "That makes two of us. I'm nobody too." It feels like it is very far away, but no matter how distantly, Aleandro can feel his heart crack in two.

* * *

><p>Aleandro tries not to be jealous, but he is very jealous of Israel. That Israel has a home. All Aleandro has are his memories. His memory will never fail him. Not like everyone else, who forgets so much, so quickly. Aleandro's gift is this (torturous, torturous, as everybody he has ever known forgets him and the one person he will always love has forgotten him and this is torment as he remembers everything) memory. He is not jealous; he is clutching his chest desperate to keep it inside. To stop it running away.<p>

Aleandro weakly slips his fingers into the guts of the motorbike, and the grease coats his fingertips. He presses his forehead to the metal, and listens to it whirr.

"It hurts, ve?"

He looks up at Italy. The gentle one. His eyes are sad, and shiny sharp, like pin-pricks of tears. Aleandro realizes he is crying himself.

"What hurts?" Aleandro's fingers tighter on the machinery, letting it swivel inside his fingers.

"When they forget." Italy is fingering his jacket uncertainly – it is fine Italian wear, and Aleandro is calculating the boot-leg price of those shoes when Italy interrupts him with the last thing he expected. "You're Aleandro."

"…w…e…" Aleandro stops. "Arvah." He agrees, but his face is morphed into this lost, little expression he had as he left the Indus Valley. "Ale…" He stops again, morse-code touched words. "But." He tries again in the language they both know. "How do you know?"

"I don't forget either." Italy murmurs. "Well, sometimes." He says it like he doesn't know which fate is worse. "No, I forget a lot." Italy's eyes are focused on the floor, and are hazy. "But I remember that you are Aleandro. Is that enough for you?"

Aleandro's hands catch on the insides of the machine, and the ragged, jagged, bite of the machine is bright red against his touch. "You helped the Porajmos."

"I remember it though." Italy crouches down and takes Aleandro's hand from the belly of the bike, and inhales sharply at the sight of the blood. He perseveres; gently staunches the blood, despite the fact Aleandro's hands are so cold.

Aleandro slumps into Italy's shoulder, shaking from head to toe, in the cold comfort of this nation. Italy has not chased him away entirely. In another time (in another mouth) he would ask who forgot Italy.

But Italy remembers Aleandro, and Porajmos, and- and that is far more distracting. Finally, somebody can be held accountable, finally somebody can be held to what they were for it is who they are Finally, somebody can take responsibility for what they have done (held accountable, held to reason over their actions and fingers, for once. Aleandro never blamed himself because nobody else has ever done so in return) and somehow, that makes things much more bearable.

Aleandro waits until his body stops shaking, aware that regardless, both he and Italy are selfish. He can remember other uses for obscenely gentle fingertips. Bird-like bony fingers are Aleandro's forte (cold and numb) so that Germany with his too-strong-hands can do nothing to him. Gentle things are much more terrible.

That is how he knows this is only cold comfort.

* * *

><p>Germany's ally has gentle fingertips, and they gently wring more from Aleandro. Too bad neither of them realize he is too far gone; that there is no more water left in this mangy cloth.<p>

Every single day more and more of Aleandro films away, spreading out and spreading thin, but still there. Still out. Thin, but there, like a filmy finish.

Aleandro laughs at the two of them, giggling and gleeful. "Oh you fools, my people we have a saying: O zalzaro khal peski piri. Acid corrodes its own container."

Germany grabs him by the hair and glares at him: He tells Aleandro that Aleandro can do nothing to hurt him, that Aleandro is not acid. Of course Aleandro is not acid, for he is nobody. He is the rabbit king.

"You are the acid and container." Aleandro smirks up at Germany, his hair sticky and greasy in Germany's hands. "You are corroding from the inside. You _fester_ and it had better kill you, because you will never forget it." Aleandro's eyes roll back into his head, and his bones feel more fractured and bird-like than ever. His fingertips are bedraggled sparrows (blackbirds, cuckoos) and are all but lifeless.

"Nobody can hurt me."

"I know." He gives a sarcastic eye-roll now. "Oops." Aleandro gives a rattling laugh now. "My mistake – I was right. Little Albion is nobody, such a rude little nobody, because he can hurt you." Aleandro's laugh is now rebounding and bouncing off the walls, because this is the only thing Aleandro can do; convince people that he knows more than they can.

In a little way, this is true, because Aleandro's memory has never failed him.

* * *

><p>"That is a very fine rabbit." Aleandro compliments England's newest charge, from the thickets. If the Englishman saw him talking to the little Kyiyu he has under his wing, he would be beaten half to half-to-half-to death. Realistically, England (not Albion, these days) would beat him until it would have killed England. That could never kill Aleandro, because they will never agree enough to kill him, all they can do is hurt him. Still, Aleandro sensibly stays out of sight.<p>

"Oh? You like Usa?" The boy crouches down, his fingers weaving through the rabbit's soft fur.

"I do. I do indeed, Kyiyu."

"Wolf? I'm not a wolf." The child smiles brightly. "Wolves eat Usa-types."

"You're a hero." Aleandro remembers well.

"Yes!"

It is heart-wrenching that so much of little Kyiyu is gone already, and yet so much is still there. Kyiyu did not run away, even though he should have been afraid. Aleandro hopes Kyiyu will not grow up to have the dark arts like England, but even he admits it was cute enough when little Albion cursed him from the tree. It is different now that England is grown.

"Usa-types can run away from wolves." Aleandro snaps a twig, but the boy seems to have temporarily lost his powerful ability to track since it doesn't make him flinch. "Who are you, tern'o chavi?"

"I'm America." Kyiyu – no, America – politely answers. "Who are you then?"

"I'm nobody."

"Usa doesn't need to run away, because I can look after Usa." America squeezes the rabbit with a soft grip, but, as Aleandro remembers, America is strong, and the rabbit flails in his grip. "I'm a hero, so I can protect Usa from a Kyiyu." Aleandro makes a tsking noise, and America's feathers are metaphorically ruffled, his hackles metaphorically raised. "What's wrong? It's good looking after things!"

"Maybe." Aleandro hums. "I used to have somebody looking after me."

"You?"

"I was called Merikano then. I didn't like being looked after that much."

"Why?"

"Because they always treated me like a less-than-person?" Aleandro isn't sure how to describe being the bottom scrapings of the caste pile to a child. How it felt to have cold fingers not worthy of touch. It strikes him as impossible.

"A kid?" There is a note of empathy in America's voice. "Ah, Usa knows what that feels like."

"What does that feel like, chavi?" Aleandro pauses. "For Usa." He adds.

America must be squeezing the rabbit again, because it's really uncomfortable in his hands. "Usa feel like dirt. Like land."

"An object. Yes. I suppose." Aleandro rolls in the thicket – a whole mess of sounds, and again America doesn't react. "Can you hear me move?"

"Hear you move? Yeah." So, apparently oblivious, but not actually. "Yeah, Usa feel like Usa doesn't have anything to say about how I- Usa, how Usa is treated. That's being a little kid."

"You are a little kid." Aleandro lies on his back, and looks up at the trees, ignoring America's huff of protest. "It's only natural you'll get treated like that. Usa is not a little kid."

"Oh."

"One day I wasn't a little kid either, so I told my caretaker-" Aleandro told his caretaker that he would shit on her. Not the best for polite company. "That I was leaving."

"What did he say?" America was fascinated, but quickly added. "For Usa, because Usa is not a little kid."

"They said no." Aleandro sighed. He remembered it very clearly. "I left anyway though – it was my right to freedom."

"Freedom." America tested the word out. "What does that feel like? Just for Usa."

"I can go anywhere I want. Do anything I want." Aleandro smirked bitterly.

"That must feel nice. That's what Usa thinks." The bitter-smirk stretched at the corners. It did not feel all that good. It made Aleandro nobody.

"Usa is a rabbit-"

"Usa-type." Aleandro paused and blinked at America. America smiled happily.

"Usa is a Usa-type. He would think freedom feels nice. Usa-types are meant to run, and you cannot run if you are not free." Aleandro rolled back over onto his stomach, and America was right in his face. Aleandro pulled bits of leaf from America's golden hair with nimble fingers, and then brushed leaved from his own hair.

"How do you know that?" America's grip on the rabbit was tight again, as if afraid of losing everything.

"Because." Aleandro clambered to his feet gracefully, and grinned at America, reaching out to ruffle the small boy's hair. "I am the King of the Usa-types, and I love to run. I'm also very good at it." England was here, and approaching fast – prepared to kill to protect his little ward. "See? Watch the Shoshoy Kralis run." Aleandro leant forward and kissed America on the brow, flicked at the hair-that-would-not-lie-still, whirled about in a mess of cloak and fled.

England's hard-beating footsteps rang behind Aleandro, chasing him away with a volley of swear words.

Aleandro tosses his head back to look at their diminishing figures, and notices America setting his rabbit down on the ground gently.

* * *

><p>Aleandro does not think much of grown-women, but this one is little, so he smiles at her. "Chavi, where am I?" He asks politely.<p>

"Hungary." The girl replies, and she looks at him suspiciously. "I'm Hungary, not Chavi."

"I'm also hungry." Aleandro sighs; his ribs are all over the place ever since his last growth spurt.

"You can't be Hungary, because I am." She glares at him. "A person can have two names, but one name cannot have two people."

"That's true." Aleandro nods. "I'm nobody, actually. My other name is Aleandro."

"I'm Eh-liz-a-vee-ta!" She says it syllable by syllable, and seems very proud of herself. Obviously being able to pronounce this name must be new for her, that or it is a new name.

"It's a pleasure." He picks her up in his arms, and discovers she is young, and easy to hold compared to him. He isn't all that strong though, so it's just as well. She squeals haplessly, and begs to be put down. "If you don't want to picked up, you must stop being cute." Aleandro pokes his tongue out at her. "When you are grown enough, you will make somebody a good wife, tern'o tale."

"What?" She exclaimed in his arms, and begins beating at him with her little fists. Sensible to a fault, Aleandro dropped her back to the earth with a muffled thump.

"It's because you're a girl." He says it patiently, pats her on the head, and then begins to walk away. Abruptly she runs forward to grab his hand. He jumps, but she's a child and so there is no problem. None really.

"What's wrong with that?" Elizaveta demands.

"There's nothing wrong with it; somebody has to be a girl, because we can't all be boys." Aleandro answers, shrugging. He doesn't quite know how to answer her though, and she begins walking along-side him, still clutching his hand.

"So, when did you get here?" She asks curiously.

"Oh, I've always been here."

* * *

><p>He is right not to think much of grown women, because when he next sees her, she is of marriageable age, and cannot remember him one bit.<p>

He introduces himself as Pesha, but does not look at her, or approach easily. Because many names can belong to the same person, and his chest is wincing. She views him with suspicion. He liked her well-enough. She was nice. She hardly knows him. Aleandro tries not to look at her, because it is not easy for him.

She looks at him oddly, and mumbles that it doesn't sound wrong. He excuses himself. He calls himself nobody.

Hungary grabs his arm, and her eyes are very wide. Aleandro, angry at how she can undo him, swats her hand away, but this time, she can barely feel it. Hungary grips his arm tightly, and Aleandro continues hitting at it, finally with a snarl and a scream, he meets her eyes.

"Let go of me!"

Aleandro hits her hand, desperately. All of him feels unclean, unclean, filthy, and it makes him scream at her helplessly, as he claws at her hand.

Hungary flinches. "I didn't realize I was hurting you…bocsánat." She's already several feet away from him, watching him with huge round saucer-shaped eyes. Begging bowl pupils.

Aleandro shudders, and leaves her standing there.

Because he doesn't know why she is pretending to not know him, except that she is definitely not pretending. It scares him, because she has forgotten. Why, though. Aleandro doesn't know why she cannot remember him. She likes him well-enough; he liked her well-enough. So, why does she not remember?

The whole experience makes Aleandro feel very old, and reminds him he does not belong.

He had wanted to marry her, but, that is of course impossible.

* * *

><p>Sometimes he hears things, like the Austro-Hungarian Empire.<p>

Frankly, and sensibly, he doesn't know how to feel about it.

* * *

><p>England is glaring at him, eyes tight with wariness. Aleandro has seen England a few times since they've met and he has already forgotten him. England has already forgotten his own name (mostly), calls himself Briton now, and Aleandro thinks it's quaint, because Albion is better. But then, many names can all belong to the same person. England still remembers some things, but has forgotten other things.<p>

He's not forgotten to be rude. England is still a small place; spiteful and vicious, especially without his brother or his dear mother to help him. Save him. England is saving himself, and Aleandro is wary of what must be done to his personality, for him to survive (roses with thorns, as they say).

Aleandro waits, because it is inevitable, when England asks who he is (any name will do, perhaps Luca, this time. It's not exactly untrue, because Aleandro is all of them. They are him. He is not bound to any geography, but is an idea, stretched thin and tight across the globe), when he got here (he has always been here. As far as England could be concerned), what he is (he is nobody. This one is an easy question).

"Get out."

"That's new." Aleandro comments, and looks up and down England.

"Get. Out." England repeats, but then adds with a spit of a snarl. "Or I will kill you."

Aleandro, sensibly backs away. "It's okay…" He murmurs. "I'm nobody." He backs away, but even England can see Aleandro has no real intention of leaving. Only disappearing.

His paranoia is bright, and vivid, and leaves Aleandro breathless with fear, but his insides are still dry ice and sand, so he lets it flow completely through his veins, still and cold.

"Egyptian thief, get out of here." England repeats. "Gypsy, go away." England is shaking all over. "I don't want your name, and I don't want you here!" Aleandro sighs.

"Arvah, Albion." Aleandro backs away, quickly brushing his hands into his cloak, and nickering to his horse, this one a grey, dappled and spotted with long streaks and gradients of slate. The horse pressed its nose into Aleandro, whickering, and oblivious to England whilst in the grips of its faith in Aleandro.

Aleandro rubbed his fingers across the horses neck, curling them, and then felt up by the withers, yanking the thread-bare rug up off the horse's withers.

"Get out of here!" England was getting hoarse, but Aleandro was a horseman, and he refused to do anything before everything was ready. He felt, two fingers under the chin of the horse, one thumb on the cheek; he patted the beast on the neck soothingly.

"Ov yilo isi?" He whispered in the horse's ear, and the ear flicked back to listen to Aleandro intently.

"I said leave!" England roared, drawing his sword, eyes dark and flashing. Eyes that had fought too many battles. "You don't belong here!"

Aleandro gripped the reins, untying them from their loose knot on the horse's strong neck, and held them between his fingers. England was right: Aleandro did not belong here. This was not his home. Aleandro stalked – boots silent in the bracken and wet mulching leaves – to the horse's side and swung up into the saddle with an ease that did not come from instinct, but from many long days learning how to earn the respect, trust and understanding of another animal. Aleandro's citizens – his hardly citizens, people, little animals that keep him alive, and keep his heart beating, how he loves them so – had not been born in the saddle, but had, they had, they had learnt, they had survived. Just as Aleandro would now.

He was nobody.

With a the merest tremble of his legs, and almost no movement from his hands (the reins foggy loose in his hands, but his thumb over the top, over the top as always) his horse quickly trotted away from the green-eyed nation.

Aleandro was a ghost, a shadow; sometimes he was here, and sometimes he was not here. Truthfully, he had no business being here, but then who does really? He's had a right to one place, and that had meant nothing in the end. That meant nothing, to nobody, to him.

His memory never failed him, but in a few generations, England would largely forget him, and forget what England had said or done before to him, and Aleandro would never be able to hold any of those actions against England (good, bad, repulsive, beautiful, meaningful, purposeless). They were lost, like shadows that faded under a bright light.

Aleandro faded, purposeless, repulsive, and beautiful, into the wood, pressing his palm against his horse's neck. "Akema mukav tut le Devlesa." He mumbled sardonically to himself, wishing goodbye to this England.

* * *

><p>She grips his hand in hers – and wide-eyes growing wide as he stares back, and her mouth open and fierce – she is older now and Aleandro flushes because of it. She is looking at him as if there is something very important to be said, to be told; as though he is somebody very important.<p>

As if she knows him. Aleandro's body is trilling, and trembling with the thought of it. All those years ago, that one little girl who introduced him to her beautiful country, and perhaps she knows him. Perhaps she will recognize him. Maybe she will call him Ferka, because that is the last name he told her, or Djordji, or Boiko, or Guaril, or Yanko, or Tobar, or Stefan, or Fonso, or Yanoro, or Zindelo, or Adrzej, or Besnik, or Punka or Yoska, or Peska. Or maybe, just maybe she will call him Aleandro.

"Who are you?" Her voice is all but a moan. Needle-prick tears are beginning to well at Hungary's eyes, and Aleandro is fighting them himself. She does not know him.

"I…" He swallows up his grief. "I'm nobody."

Hungary's eyes are still wide, and filled with a lost expression. Aleandro cannot help himself, he reaches out with his spare hand and cups her chin lightly in his hand. He wants to ask her if she's okay, but it becomes lost in translation.

"Is there heart here?"

Hungary bites her lip, the tears spilling down her cheeks suddenly, and Aleandro is frightened by it. He gently brushes them away, and mumbles at her to please stop. Because he doesn't know how to deal with tears.

"Elizaveta, are you okay?" He chokes it out, still eating his grief (eating the dead, as they call it, the act of forgiveness. It would better to die than to be forgotten, for everybody's sake, and his memory has never failed him, never ever failed him, even though it fails them so often. They fail him so easily.) and it makes his throat feel tight, obstructed, and swollen. Like he has burnt the back of it. "Elizaveta, please; I would do anything to ease your distress." It comes out in a tumbling rush past his swollen tongue and he hastily tries to undo his word.

"W-who are you?" She is all but sobbing, but her eyes and wide (clear, but obscured with tears) and whilst her lip is trembling, she forces the words out. Aleandro has heard things about the dissolution of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and he doesn't even pretend to feel anything about it.

"I'm nobody." He says it again.

His memory has never failed him, and will never fail him.

"No." Hungary is shaking her head violently, but still staring with her platter-shaped eyes at Aleandro. "No, no, no." She coughs past the sob, hiccoughing lightly. "You're not nobody." She presses her hands tightly around the one she holds, and somehow grips something in Aleandro's chest. "You're not nobody. I know that. You're not nobody."

Aleandro's resolve breaks, like leaves scattering into the wind, and for the second time in his long, unfaltering, unaltering life (and long, unfaltering, unaltering memory) he can feel his heart crack in two. Tears are skidding down his cheeks faster than horses down a hill. He can't stop himself. Lip trembling. Fingers trembling. All of him is a trembling rabbit. Shoulders shaking. Bones shaking. All of him is a shaking bird. A bird-boned rabbit King.

The sobs catch horribly in his throat, tripping over every muscle and fold. Biting deep into his body. He looses a half-cry, and chokes on the sound, making a sudden spluttering from him.

He is certain his hands are not quite so cold, because Hungary has not stopped clutching at them. No, instead she tucks him, and his head into her shoulder, hands brushing into his hair and holding his cloak. Aleandro throws his arms around her, and holds on with his tiny, hungry (ribs everywhere, like Braille for the blind) grip.

"You're not nobody." Hungary whispers into his ear.

"I'm Aleandro." He chokes back. "The Rabbit King of the Romani People." Somewhere in him, hot and melting all over him is a single, clear fact: MCF Roma összefogás. Hungary kisses the top of his head, and strokes his hair, soothing his rabbit blood, even though his sparrow heart is still thumping. She must feel it.

"I will never forget you again."

Again is the most beautiful word in the world, to Aleandro. It is filled with hot-warm proof, and Aleandro's carved face has cracked into little pieces. She _remembers_ him. His memory has failed him, because he cannot remember this feeling properly. Cannot place it in his memory – like hunger, you must feel it.

"I am not nobody." He agrees, and muffles his breathing into her hair.

* * *

><p><strong>May your quills be ever sharp.<strong>

* * *

><p><em>Historical notes time, see below:<em>

* * *

><p>Aleandro: The name of a semi-mythical figure who allegedly led the Romani people out of India. A derivative of Alejandro, and Alexander.<p>

Kralis: Meaning King. Other forms include Cralis, and Craliss.

2010: In a move described as xenophobic by the UN, the French Government has started exporting Romani groups. Hn.

1502: The French evicted the Romani people from their country.

1526: Henry VIII evicted the Romani people from England; any gypsy encountered in England was sentenced to death.

1530: The Egyptian's Act was passed, banning any "egyptian" people from entering England, in other words, any Roma.

Li' Ha' eer: Meaning by the Gods. An oath.

Motorbikes: The Romani are noted for their skills with horses, and in more modern times, motorbikes and other vehicles.

Chavi: Meaning Child (non-gender-specific)

Tern'o: Meaning Little

Tale: Meaning Hawk. It was the closest I could find to Eagle, haha.

Nicu: Common Romani name, related to Nicolas.

Magic: Whilst the Romani people are reputed to have powerful magical skills, it is largely charisma and skill with an audience. This is referred to as "The Great Trick".

Mihai: Common Romani named, related to Mikhail or Michael.

Gypsy: Common term for Romani, and considered offensive by the Roma themselves.

America's Mother: Aleandro is referring to the native american peoples. He is implying what has been done to them is enough to make Aleandro feel anger towards America.

Arvah: Meaning yes.

Ale: Meaning but.

Wokitaík: From the Hopa Americans, meaning I am angry.

ąká: As above, meaning not/negation.

Ną́kewa: As above, meaning afraid.

čahų́na: As above, meaning doe/female deer.

Kyiyu: From the Seneca Americans, meaning wolf.

Shoshoy Kralis: Meaning Rabbit King (nb: Shoshoy = Rabbit) in various Roma dialects.

Vyusher: Meaning wolf.

Dead: The Romani people are traditionally very wary of the spirits of the dead, and have a healthy respect for ghosts.

Machka: Meaning cat.

Caledon: Shortening of Caledonia, and referring to Scotland. A powerful tribe of Ancient Scotland.

Swiver: From the Old English verb "swive" meaning "to engage with sexually" - equivalent to the word fuck.

Bleeding Wounds: An Old English oath, albeit in more modern language.

Albion: Ancient name for England.

Alba: Ancient name for Scotland.

Shalom: Traditional hebrew greeting meaning Peace

Sastipe: A Romani greeting, not-traditional, and similar to a toast.

Indus Valley: Whilst the Romani people originated technically from semitic (particularly) Hebrew nomads, they branched off in the Indus Valley. This explains the relation between Israel and Aleandro. They eventually left, and it is believed they did so because they were considered a low caste by the locals.

Rhom: Early form of Romani, Roma, etc. and would be the technical term for the ethnicity.

Palestine: Fairly common fact, but Palestine was split in two to make room for what would become Israel.

500, 000 - 1.5 million: The approximated numbers for the Romani killed during the holocaust.

17 million: Approximation for the people killed during the holocaust in total.

6 million: Number of Jewish People killed, again approximate. There were 7 million in Europe at the time. Truly horrendous ]:

Numbers: Some people debate the numbers of people killed during the holocaust. I'm of the opine that it is no good arguing numbers with all that much fuss.

Hanzi: Common Romani name, derivative of Honza, from the Czech stock of names. I have a second cousin called Honza =D

Bengesko Niamso: Damn German, a Romani curse.

May Angle Sar Te Merel Kadi Yag: Before this fire goes out, a Romani oath.

1417: The Romani people first were noted in Germany in 1407, and less than ten years later, were expulsed.

Te Merav: May I die, a Romani oath.

Li' sa' eer: By the Highest Gods, a Romani oath.

Miro Prala: meaning My Brother

Gage/gago/Gadge: All meaning a non-roma. Notably, the jewish are traditionally exempt from this label, whilst they may also not be Roma. Traditionally the Roma are more comfortable about the jewish people, and they share similar purity customs.

Mircea: From the Russian Mirca, another Romani name. It means peace, which is the same meaning as Shalom ;_;

Porajmos: The Romani term for the holocaust involving the Roma people.

Italy: The Italians have yet to officially kick the Roma out, and they are somewhat known for their gypsies. Whilst no friend of Aleandro's, they do have a few points of empathy regarding memory. The person who has forgotten Italy is of course Holy Roman Empire -sniffles-

O Zalzaro khai peski piri: Acid corrodes it own container.

Usa: Short for Usagi, or rabbit in Japanese. Hetalia readers should already be familiar with why it's associated with America (USA... Usagi... USAgi, you get the picture).

Usa-Type: America's word for rabbit, it seems, hehe.

Merikano: Common Romani name, I don't recall the origins or meaning, but I chose it because it sounds like America ^^;

Tracking: Aleandro remembers America as a good tracker... and apparently that skill is still there, although America's habit of ignoring the atmosphere is also present.

Shit: Common Romani expression of anger, and insult is that they will shit on you. Almost as charming as the English.

Hawk: Hungary is referred to as a hawk. This is a passing reference to the Austo-Hungarian Eagle.

Women: Impurity laws regarding women are complex and particular in traditional Romani culture, whilst this did not make the final cut of the story, they are called "marihime" and are related to the Jewish purity laws, at least by origin etc. Additionally, quite a patriarchal society. Compared to a western nation, Aleandro is quite sexist.

Pesha: Romani name, derives from the Russian Pasha.

Bocsánat: Hungarian for I'm sorry, I believe.

England's threat: The first move against the Roma in England, officially, was a death sentence to any in the country.

Ov Yilo Isi: Literally, "is there heart here?" but means "is it okay?"

Akema mukav tut le Devlesa: Meaning, "I now leave you to God" and is a funeral comment. Aleandro both feels as those he is dead because he is nobody, and also England - when he encounters Aleandro next, will forget Aleandro, and for all purposes be a new person. Therefore this England is 'dead'.

Names: Ferka, Djordji, Boiko, Guaril, Yanko, Tobar, Stefan, Fonso, Yanoro, Zindelo, Adrzej, Besnik, Punka, Yoska, Peska are all Roma names. Whew.

MCF Roma összefogás: Mentioned at the start - the first Roma Political Party ever established, and done so in Hungary. Not particularly... well... they made up less than 0.01% of the votes in the last elections (considerably less at that) but still progress!


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